


Day By Day

by Archenfane



Category: DCU
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Awkward Romance, Barry Allen Has Anxiety, Barry Allen Needs a Hug, Barry Allen has ADHD, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Protective Bruce Wayne, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:59:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archenfane/pseuds/Archenfane
Summary: Barry Allen and Bruce Wayne, facing the challenges of their past, present, and future.





	Day By Day

Of all the places Barry had expected Bruce to take him on their first official _date_ , he’d never expected Bruce to bring him to his parents’ graves.

Barry’s not flashy, despite what his alias suggests. He likes trinkets and a cosy living space. Sure, he’d never turn down a restaurant but he’d be equally happy with a couple hundred tacos or a boatload of caviar. He’s not fussy, definitely not high maintenance, and as long as he’s spending time with Bruce, he’s happy.

That’s what he thought before he came face to face with Martha and Thomas Wayne.

So maybe he’s not on a date, even if he’d spent hours changing clothes and taking showers until his skin felt raw and tight over his vibrating limbs. Not his favourite jacket, but his nicest one, presses on his shoulders as Bruce explains.

“It’s the anniversary of their deaths.”

They’ve had this thing for months now. Bruce, actually volunteering to join Barry for training sessions or, more recently, a trip to the Batcave. He’s probably naïve to get excited over something so ordinary but… Barry’s standard. He’s nice, likeable, even charismatic at times but he’s no-one’s best friend or even lover.

He’d figured, now that Hal spilt his big, gay secret to the other founders, Batman’s suggestion for an outing (five o’clock, wear something nice) had a larger meaning behind it.

“You’re the only other person I know who’s suffered loss like I have.” Bruce turns to him, a warm in his eyes that Barry can’t explain. A moment later, he turns more to the car than the graves. “Will you join me to the manor?”

Bruce’s home. Not the Batcave – his _home_. What exactly does that mean?

Barry hesitates, sending his gaze back to the twin graves. What does it mean that Bruce wants _him_ to be by his side in such a vulnerable time of his life?

“You think too much.” Bruce tells him.

Barry is startled when Bruce’s hand registers on the side of his face, thumb stroking over his cheek. It slides down to rest on his shoulder, then gently guides Barry back to the car.

Barry slides into the seat in a daze, thinking too fast for Bruce’s movements around the car to register in anything but a snail’s pace. He stares for too long when the world catches up and Bruce settles in the driver’s seat, reaching to take his hand with a frown.

“Was this a mistake?” He asks.

Barry’s too busy thinking about the sweat building on his palms and _surely_ Bruce can feel it and now he’s rethinking _everything_.

No. Not everything? Oh, yes, the graves…

“No, I—That was fine.” Barry manages, twisting his head to look at the flowers Bruce left, one by each slab of cold, unforgiving stone. “I haven’t been to the manor before – are you sure it’s ok?”

He hates how his voice sounds small but Bruce’s smile – the slightest tug at his lips – doesn’t hold it against him. Instead, he starts up the car wordlessly and off they go.

  


The sun is gone by the time they arrive at the manor, absent from the cool scenery of winter. There hasn’t been a snowfall yet, however, the air is cool enough for Barry to stuff his hands in the stiff fabric of his coat, chasing off the nip.

Bruce seems unaffected. His hands are warm – heated, even – when they remove Barry’s scarf at the front door. He closes it after them both, then proceeds to loop the scarf in his hands. Barry considers stepping forward, considers knockin the scarf away and claiming Bruce’s hands for himself, but an older man takes it from Bruce, then turns to Barry, waiting for his coat.

He recognises Alfred from the times he delivered food to them both in the Cave, but not in a setting like this. Not with the fading touch of Bruce’s hands ghosting around his neck, nor the subtle ache in his chest. And here he is – the man who raised Bruce. His father? Mentor? Nanny? One of the three.

Barry considers that he might not be thinking rather quickly at all when Alfred’s eyes move to Bruce, questioning. His polite smile remains in place, even as Barry feels the air rushing from the room.

Bruce saves him by starting on his coat, and barry barely remembers to remove his hands from the pockets. His fingers are buzzing, trembling. In fact, his entire form s blurring around the edges until Bruce smoothes a hand over the small of his back, not too low, and waits for Alfred to leave before taking his hand.

“Is everything ok?”

He wants to weep because everything is great. Everything is amazing. Still, his chest is constricting with every touch because what does it mean when Bruce brings him to see his parents, then the man who raised him, all in one day?

When he asks – barely able to get the words out, stumbling and stuttering through the sounds because his lips are dry and he feels nauseated – Bruce, the angel that he is, presses a kiss to his temple.

“It means we’re having dinner.” He brushes it off but his hand remains firmly wrapped around Barry’s, grounding him.

Food. Ok. Barry can do food. No need to overthink food.

  


“Do you want to stay the night?”

He’d finally settled, and perhaps that’s why Bruce asked, when the question arises.

Months of building himself up to Bruce, months of offering movie nights or perhaps a coffee after work, has got Barry to this moment and, honestly, he’d never really thought it would come. Months of _hard work_ getting Bruce to open up, consider anything more than a friendly relationship, if even that, between the two, and Barry never once considered that Gotham’s most eligible playboy might actually want to have sex with him. Oh God. And Barry’s not asexual – there’s a soft stirring in his lower abdomen whenever Bruce shows up in one of those sleek shirts and dress pants, looking like he just stepped out of a magazine. However, fantasies are one thing. Sex is another.

Bruce moves his hand to touch Barry’s cheek and, instantly, the blond man is across the room, gasping for breath as he tries to figure out how to tell Bruce that sex is a _terrible, horrendous idea and Barry can barely muster up enough courage to go on a date with the man, for God’s sake, nevermind a full-blown romp with—_

“Barry, you’re having a panic attack.” Bruce tells him, voice barely loud enough to hear over his own panting. “I’m going to walk towards you.”

He does. Slowly. Bruce crouches a couple of feet from Barry’s vibrating position against the wall and lightly reaches out.

His index finger brushes against Barry as a test. Barry can feel the surface of Bruce’s fingernail lightly brushing across the spreading whiteness of his fingers.

“I don’t want to.” Barry stammers, eyes wet as he tries to control his breathing. He ends up holding it, making his voice cath every time he speaks. “Have sex – I can’t, I can’t—”

“Barry, I know.” Bruce slowly crosses the gap between them. He sits adjacent to Barry, side by side as he reaches for the anxious man’s hand. “I meant to sleep. You can have your own room if you’d like.”

Barry’s still shaking. He is tired, and relief hits him hard, so it seems easy to rest against Bruce’s chest and close his eyes for a brief second.

“Breathe.” Bruce strokes his hair, albeit a little awkwardly but Barry knows he’s trying. “I’m not going to push you to do anything you aren’t ready for.”

  


It was a long day, a fact Barry recognises when Barry steps into the master suite, eyes flitting to the en-suite, where Bruce is brushing his teeth.

Barry got ready in the bathroom down the hall, still nervous. Since, he’s mulled over Bruce’s promise in the minutes that felt like centuries. Even if he hasn’t repeated it enough in his own voice to believe it, a little voice tells him that he can always run away. Bruce would be unprepared and Barry can run, fast and far. Not that it would ever come to that, he knows logically.

Bruce is searching in his wardrobe, Barry finds when he looks up. He must sleep in his underwear (or less, maybe) because he’s having some trouble looking for something to sleep in.

Barry chooses not to think about that too much as he turns his head to the photo by the bed. It’s Martha and Thomas Wayne, smiling as if they’d done it their entire life, in a gold-framed photograph.

“Should I change in the bathroom?” Bruce offers, gesturing what looks like the sweats and T-shirt he’s holding.

Blushing, Barry tells him it’s fine. After all, they’ve changed in front of each other at League headquarters – it’s no biggie. Barry has seen all of the male Leaguers undressed. The same can’t be said for them, of course, since Barry is usually dressed in a flash of light.

He changes as if it’s not a big deal. As if Barry isn’t in his bed. As if Barry won’t be pressed up against him all—

He’s queasy all over again.

Bruce slips into the other side of the bed, sitting up stiffly.

“Thank you for being here today.” He’s speaking intentionally as if he really has to think about how he feels. It catches Barry’s attention since his feelings seem to bombard him when it’s least convenient. Bruce’s eyes shift to Barry’s. “It’s the anniversary of their deaths and I needed someone to take the chill off this old place.”

Bruce wanted emotional support and Barry ended up being a wreck the entire evening.

“It makes things easier… having you around.” He sighs in the middle, earnest yet entirely uncomfortable. He’s trying though, which is more than Barry’s doing.

This is Bruce’s day to mourn, however, and Barry doesn’t want to bring up old drama, so he smiles meekly.

Another day, perhaps.


End file.
